


Intoxicated

by thrushrut



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blue is a Persian blue cat lmao, M/M, Pidge Uses They/Them Pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 02:51:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9528611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrushrut/pseuds/thrushrut
Summary: AU prompt "you live in my building and we wave to each other in the halls sometimes but one night at 2 am you knocked on my door and you were drunk and crying and you collapsed in my arms ??? i dont know what to do oh ymgod?? here sleep on my couch oh GOd you threw up"





	

There’s something strangely fulfilling about watching every episode of Full House at 1 in the morning. At least, Lance thinks there is. It’s some kind of soul rotting goodness that only the hardiest of warriors can withstand.

 

Hunk likes to tease that Lance is a slut for the super sappy family moments and he hasn’t denied it yet either. In fact it’s getting to a good one, where Kimmy decides to run off with her doofus boyfriend to have an impromptu wedding in Vegas.

 

Lance is passionately flailing the sleeves to his oversized sweater, crying into the halo receiver of his wireless earbuds. “It’s just not fair Pidge! I know she’s a dork and all but she can’t really think this will make her happy! I mean he looks like he’s toked off his ass every scene he’s in and he never looks at her with any kind of passion or affection or just, anything!”

 

All he receives is a palpable silence of pure irritation before Pidge sighs, their voice low and annoyed. “Lance are you seriously dissecting Full House again? It’s almost two in the freaking morning go to sleep.” The first thing he can think to do is scoff, a sleeve hitting his face in his own display of offense.

 

“Okay so, firstly, I was talking about how sexist Eric Foreman can be in That 70’s Show last time, thank you. Secondly, you never go to bed before four am! So don’t give me that whole, ‘it’s too late for this Lance’ bullcrap!”

 

“I can feel my soul getting tired with every weird thing you say about D.J. Stephanie, and how different they become in Fuller House, which you never should have watched.” “I never should have watched,” he agrees solemnly, “it ruined my life and the integrity of this classic 80’s and 90’s wholesome family entertainment.”

 

A shiver races up his spine in memory of all the cringe worthy things that happen in Fuller House, it was an evil in this world. There’s a meep from somewhere near Lance’s ear and he turns to see his faithful Persian cat, Blue, poised on the back of the couch. Her eyes are trained out a little spot in the blinds she had ‘accidentally’ knocked out a while back.

 

“-nce, hey are you listening to me?”

 

“Wuh?” He replies as intelligently as possible, earning him a snort. “You should really go to bed, don’t you have work in the morning?”

 

Oh yeah work, luckily their concerns were unnecessary, “nah I swapped days with a coworker so I have tomorrow off. You could say I’m, home stuck,” a roar of outrage meets his delighted laughter. “C’mon Pidge cancer you see I’m trying to be serious here!”

 

“Fuck you Lance!”

 

“Aw, sounds like someone needs to be shoosh papped.”

 

More yelling grinds against his ear drum but he can’t be damned to care, sleeves again flapping in his delight. Suddenly there’s a beeping sound, a females voice cutting into whatever promises of death Pidge was making. “Battery low,” it says, “please recharge.”

 

“Pidge,” he wheezes through his amusement, “my headset is dying, I, I gotta go.” “Oh now you gotta go huh?” they mutter spitefully, “after subjecting me to the phantom remains of your high school years. Our high school years! I had to take you to the hospital when you tried to spray paint yourself gray!”

 

“Clam down Pidge! I o-fish-ally said I was sorry when we graduated!” They end up bantering heavily until Pidge’s voice cuts off during a heated tongue lashing and then it’s just too quiet. There’s nothing aside from the soft voices from the tv and Blue’s dedicated purring.

 

They don’t call back, but several choppy messages of an angry rant come flying across his phone screen faster than he can blink. The last one is a picture message, Lance holds his thumb over the home button to unlock the screen and see’s a blurred picture of Pidge flipping him off. There’s Keith, a shared friend, flipping him off in the background for added affect.

 

Lance just sends them a picture of the most smug and coy look his can muster, hiding a portion of his cat like grin behind his sleeve. He draws on it a little for added affect, even going so far as to write ‘caw caw mother fucker’ in the bottom corner knowing it would just spur Pidge’s rage.

 

After leaning over the couch to successfully plug in his headset, Lance sprawls across the space, resuming all his attention on the familiar theme song of his youth. “It’s a shame John Stamos got all weird,” he mumbles under his breath, “that man was fine years ago.”

 

Before he can get too engrossed in the fast paced world of Full House fandom something jostles him out of his thoughts. At first he’s not sure what it was, but then it happens again, and again, until it’s an incessant noise of utter desperation.

 

Someone was knocking at his door.

 

A noise rumbles low in his throat but never the less Lance walks over to answer. “Who is even alive at two am,” he mutters and wretches the door open only to be forced back into his apartment when a solid weight hits him. It’s large, around Lance’s height, but the sheer muscle mass is enough to give him a struggle.

 

Lance’s brain was in overdrive, mouth about to pop open to scream for help when he notes just who it is that’s thrown themselves in his arms.

 

It’s his neighbor, well technically not neighbor, he was a floor below Lance but they seemed to see each other an awful lot. He was a really friendly guy, quiet, but he had that silent warm Dad Friend aura.

 

Well except now as he sobs hysterically into the crook of Lance’s neck, his entire form just reeking of booze.

 

“Uh,” he chokes out, trying his damnedest not to throw them both on the floor “S-Shiro? You okay buddy?”

 

He doesn’t expect a heart broken wail and for Shiro to slide entirely off his body, falling in a heap on the floor.

 

Shit, shit, fuck, what in the hell was he supposed to do? Lance panics again before remembering to close his front door and locking it up. Hopefully with his locks the other would be too drunk to get out and potentially hurt himself in his tantrum.

 

There’s a loud whimper by his feet, forcing Lance to get down on his hands and knees to brush at the rumpled fluff of white hair in Shiro’s face. “C’mon Shiro,” he tries again, “how the hell did you get here this trashed?” Teary blood shot eyes shoot him the most sour look Lance thinks he’s ever seen. Eyeliner has been smeared all around the area, making him look even more upset.

 

“I walked,” ouch, maybe he was coherent, he thinks this for exactly five seconds until Shiro makes a whining noise not unlike a small child. “Stop lookin at me with your stupid eyes!” How wasted did this man have to be to get reduced to toddler status? Lance never stops brushing Shiro’s hair aside, knowing the action is soothing he tries again, “how many drinks did you have?”

 

“Elventeen,” is the very serious reply he receives, was, was that a gravity falls reference? Lance tries not to think about it. Instead he finally wraps his arms around the others waist, straining with all his might to tug him back up. “Alright then fella, why don’t we get you onto the couch and you can watch Full House with me.”

 

“Like the theme song,” Shiro mutters petulantly, like he’s forcing himself to admit it, and finally struggles to stand with Lance’s aid. They end up three feet from the couch when Shiro jerks and instinctively curls over and suddenly there’s retching involved and if Lance could die he would have died exactly ten minutes ago.

 

But here he is, depositing a whimpering mess of a man onto his couch while he goes to fetch some ginger ale and Pedialyte and a large towel to soak up most of the sick on his floor. Shockingly enough when he returns Shiro is still lucid, he looks somber, well sort of somber, maybe more like a pouty teenager.

 

He’s squinting at the tv when Lance offers him the glass of ginger ale, asking as seriously as he can. “Can you hold the cup or do you need me to do it?” Something strangely warm and tingly ignites in his chest when the other man gives him this miserably puppy dog look and mumbles, “can you please?”

 

How could he deny that face, honestly.

 

Lance manages to get Shiro to lay on his back, his head carefully placed on the brunettes lap as he gives him a few tiny sips. “I got you Pedialyte too,” he adds absently, shaking the bottle a bit before twisting the lid off. “Stuff is nasty but it’ll make sure you don’t feel too trash nasty in the morning.”

 

They sit in compatible silence for a while. Lance spoon feeding his wasted neighbor baby hydration gunk, and Shiro taking each spoonful like a begrudging brat. Halfway through the bottle Lance makes the mistake of restating his first question.

 

“Shiro, why were you crying when I opened the door?” almost instantly those eyes grow glossy, fat tears tumbling down sickly flushed cheeks at an alarming rate. Shiro tosses his head into Lance’s stomach, nearly making him drop the bottle in his hand.

 

He hears him say something, but it’s muffled by the fabric of his shirt. Carefully the brunette smooths the material down and waits until Shiro is willing to repeat himself.

 

When he does it’s not what Lance was expecting.

 

“Boyfriend dumped me.”

 

“Oh,” he’s about to offer more, but Shiro interrupts him with another loud sob. “He took my cat!”

 

So was it the break up or the cat swindling that bothered him more? Lance simply rubs little circles on one of his arms, surprised when Shiro all but smacks his hand away.

 

“Don’t touch that one, that’s the bad one, I’m bad, rotten stuff,” his voice warbles and stutters, “not good enough, for him, or Champion.” It takes a second for the other to realize he’d been stroking the arm with the prosthetic, in a fit of stubbornness, he resumes his comfort petting.

 

“Well fuck him,” he declares savagely, “I think you’re good stuff, not rotten! Um, but, who’s Champion?” The name makes Shiro sniffle but he doesn’t shake off the hand again. “He was m’cat, grumpy n mean but he was mine! Gonna, gonna get kicked out, was his place too. Drank all the booze cause fuck’m, got, got no where to go though.”

 

So that would explain just about everything then, Lance can’t help the ache he feels for this man. Told he was all fucked up and then dumped and kicked out? Who the fuck even did that. Shiro has to move his head away to inhale through his mouth, nose too clogged up to breathe properly.

 

“It’s okay,” he find’s himself saying, prompting another spoonful of Pedialyte through the elders lips once he’s done gasping. “You can just stay with me,” wait what, “and we can share my cat, or get you another one!” wait double what.

 

Lance doesn’t feel the need to take this back though, especially not when those eyes are looking at him like he’s hung the moon. As if knowing she’s been talked about, Blue leaps down from the back of the couch, marching across the length of Shiro’s body to snuggle up on his chest. It seemed she agreed, allowing an uncoordinated hand to attempt to pet her and Lance can feel Shiro completely sag in relief.

 

When the last of the bottle is gone it’s capped and tossed to the carpet, the larger man has finally drifted off to sleep leaving Lance pinned under his softly snoozing form. It’s not a bad position, it’ll certainly be an interesting morning for sure. But for now he simply tugs down the spare blankets draped over the back of the sofa, arranging them in a way that can comfortably cover their bodies.

 

Before sleep claims him, he wonders if Shiro will remember the offer, wonders if he’ll accept. Lance closes his eyes and drifts off to the sound of quiet snoring and Jesse singing to Rebecca, their song, Forever.

 

===============

 

Surprisingly enough it’s Lance who wakes up first.

 

He really doesn’t want to, but a paw is batting at his ear, urgent cat chatter greeting him with the sun blaring through the hole in the blinds. It doesn’t help that Shiro is wiggling around either, the man had rolled on his side some time in the night, face buried into Lance’s stomach once more.

 

‘He can’t possibly breathe like that,’ the brunette thinks blearily and ponders if he should attempt to wake the other up or not. Not a bone in Lance’s body is willing to move, not even as Blue smacks at his face again. “Blue,” he growls, “five more minutes c’mon,” but she’s deemed sleep is for the weak and the drunk because her paw reaches out shortly after for another smack.

 

It seemed at the sound of his voice Shiro stirs, he inhales and exhales long and slow, creating a warm spot right over Lance’s bellybutton. Slowly but surely, equally as hazy silver eyes peek out to see what was going on.

 

Lance is pretty impressed that Shiro doesn’t freak out for the first ten seconds. Instead he flat out stares, the sleep in his hues swirling into confusion and panic quickly there after. “Lance?!” He croaks out, but doesn’t move, he seems petrified, adding in quietly, “ I thought last night was a dream.”

 

Before he knows what he’s doing, Lance replies shamelessly, “hon I’m too perfect to be a dream, but if you’d like, I’ll make a special guest appearance next time just for you.”

 

Ah, whoops.

 

Most of his self preservation skills are too bogged down by fatigue to stop his mouth from running, luckily Shiro doesn’t seem to take offense. Instead a soft simmer of color splashes along his cheeks and neck and he rolls onto his back once again to fully face his host.

 

Lance can’t help it, he reaches down to fluff those white locks, asking casually. “How did you sleep?”

 

The ministrations all but melt the remaining stress that had coiled its way back into Shiro’s body, silver eyes slowly hiding behind black smeared lids. “It was good, I expected to be in a lot of pain but I sort of remember you feeding me something gross that helped.”

 

“Pedialyte,” Lance chirps, “it’s meant for babies who need to stay hydrated, it’s full of electrolytes, so it’s kind of like Gatorade on steroids. I fed you an entire bottle mostly because I wasn’t sure how much you’d had to drink.”

 

Shiro’s shoulders shift up a little, sort of like he’s trying to scrunch up in on himself and his voice is nothing if not full of shame. “I drank two bottles of wine, half a bottle of whiskey and a case of beer,” “holy shit,” Lance mumbles “I probably should have given you another bottle at that rate, do you have a headache or anything?”

 

It’s fascinating to watch the blush return and actually grow across soft peachy skin, Shiro finally opens his eyes and the puppy dog pout is even more effective when he’s sober. “Can I please have some more ginger ale?”

 

Ah fuck he was so screwed.

 

Giving those soft tangled locks one more affectionate run through, Lance slips out from under his guest, padding to the kitchen for another can of ginger ale. After all, the one from the night before was long stale and flat, and only heathens drank flat crappy drinks.

 

The second time he appears with a can of ginger ale Shiro is actually sitting up. The blanket is still draped around him as he huddles in one of the corners, a very smug looking Blue monopolizing his lap. “You little prima donna,” it’s meant to be scathing but Lance’s voice holds nothing but affection, making Shiro look back up to take the offered drink.

 

“Thank you,” he mumbles around the edge of the can, taking small sips and trying his very best not to look up at the young man he’d make an absolute fool of himself in front of. If Lance noticed however he says nothing, instead choosing to quickly clean up the mess on his floor and flutter too and fro to get a few things done.

 

By the time he’s able to sit back down on the couch, he’s made Blue her breakfast, gotten all of Shiro’s sick off his carpet, and started a load of laundry. Acting like it’s any other typical Tuesday, he grabs his Xbox controller and starts a That 70’s Show marathon for background noise.

 

They watch a few episodes together, the mood is light and lazy until Shiro is ready to start talking about it all again. “Did,” he tries, voice faltering but pushes through none the less, “did you mean what you said last night?” _about me being able to stay….?_ Is the unspoken second part to the question. Lance watches Donna yell at Eric on the tv, gaze far off and thoughtful.

 

“Why did you come to me of all people?” he asks instead, trying to keep his voice light and wondering. Shiro is deathly silent in return and Lance has to look over in case he’s fallen asleep again.

 

But he hasn’t, no, there are more large sloppy tear drops clustering in the corners of his eyes as he stares pointedly at the can of ginger ale. An instant protectiveness overtakes Lance, he doesn’t hesitate to move closer, a sleeve rubbing dedicated circles against wet cheeks.

 

“I meant it,” he finds himself saying just as Shiro confesses, “you’re the only one I could think to go to.” Startled blue meets hopeful silver and the tears start falling even faster, Lance finds himself getting even closer in a desperate attempt to stop them. “Thank you for trusting me enough to come here,” the other sleeve joins in, both of them stained wet and black. “As of today you are officially my new roommate, no if’s, and’s, or but’s allowed unless you really don’t want to.”

 

Arms slowly reach out, curling around Lance to press him firmly against the weeping man’s chest. These are as much of joy as they are of sadness, and all Lance can do is gently cradle Shiro’s head against his neck in return, hushing all of the apologies and thanks that hiccup out of his throat.

 

They sit like this for a long time, simply basking in each others presence until one after the other their stomachs snarl for food. With one final rub against one of Shiro’s cheeks, the brunette flashes him a bright smile. “Why don’t you go take a shower and I’ll make us breakfast, do ham and cheese omelets sound okay?”

 

Shiro looks up into that pretty face, the sweet wonderful face of his young neighbor who has so graciously taken him in as a roommate. And for the first time since his exes awful words, he finds his heart give a tremble of contentment.

 

“Yeah,” he whispers, “that sounds perfect.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> tbh I feel sick as a dog and it's nearly 2 am and I'm watching Full House because I can't sleep.
> 
> I love everyone who's been so supportive of my fics, I'm really glad you like them so much and I hope you keep liking my content, it's all for ny'all! <3
> 
> if you ever want to chat or have a prompt you want me to do, (please help me I have so many prompts but none at the same time do you feel me??? I AM ALONE IN THIS OCEAN) drop me a line here or on my [tumblr](http://thrushrut.tumblr.com/) (sorry it's so empty, it's a brand new side blog)
> 
> now if you'll excuse me I'm going to cry because I really want ginger ale.


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